


just a pretty boy with a shot glass

by maxbegone



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bars and Pubs, Coming Out, David Rose is a Good Person, Introspection, Kissing, Mentions of Substance Abuse, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Patrick/Rachel, Minor Sebastien Raine, Not Beta Read, Strangers to Lovers, or something like that, really just 10k of patrick thinking about how beautiful david is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/pseuds/maxbegone
Summary: Dressed in leather and ripped jeans, he’s all sharp angles and rich auras with his high, dark hair. The bar is dim, but even against its lacquered browns and chipped paint, Patrick thinks he’s the brightest thing in the room.An AU in which Patrick sees David in a bar, witnesses heartbreak, and falls very quickly.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Sebastien Raine/David Rose
Comments: 27
Kudos: 253





	just a pretty boy with a shot glass

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [@dinnfameron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinnfameron/pseuds/dinnfameron) for your help with tying this thing together!
> 
> Title from [Walk You Home by Sir Chloe](https://open.spotify.com/track/19C3dH0RpMnYyp2yWwBaZb?si=xVPRVw5vTNK8n4vABxz4OA)

The first time Patrick sees him, he’s sitting alone at the end of the bar in the spot closest to the door.

He doesn’t do anything in particular to make himself known to Patrick; he’s just minding his own business as she scrolls through his phone with a rocks glass of whiskey in front of him.

He stands out.

Patrick’s nursing a beer, hunched on a stool with his elbows digging into the bartop while he stares at the peeling label of his bottle.

The man sits tall with his shoulders back like he holds some kind of authority, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes as if he’s expecting someone to enter. He doesn’t look snobby or even particularly standoffish.

He looks a little sad.

Dressed in leather and ripped jeans, he’s all sharp angles and rich auras with his high, dark hair. The bar is dim, but even against its lacquered browns and chipped paint, Patrick thinks he’s the brightest thing in the room.

“Excuse me?” He hears a soft, somewhat tentative voice, and Patrick looks over to his left where the man is sitting. A set of silver rings on his right hand catch in the light. “Can I get another drink?”

Patrick tries not to stare as the empty glass is refilled with amber liquor, or as the man nods in thanks and takes a sip.

“Can I get you another round?”

Patrick startles, his attention pulled toward the bartender as he nods, accepting another bottle. 

He tries not to drown his sorrows in his drink like he’s heard sung in every country song they used to blast at family barbecues, but it’s hard not to when he’s just broken up with Rachel for the final time.

Patrick scoffs at himself. The last time? He said that after their _last_ breakup two years ago, but like magnets they came hurtling back toward each other.

But something about this time feels different. It has to be. It’s like he’s shed some sort of skin.

And it’s not that he doesn’t love Rachel, because he really does, but Patrick is continuously realizing that the way he loves her isn’t enough. Or, maybe “enough” isn’t the right word.

The way he does her isn’t the way she deserves. He’ll always love her because she’s been a big part of his life for nearly half of it. He just hopes that they can remain friends at the very least.

They should probably have a conversation.

The door opens, and in rushes a trio of women with the cool breeze. The man at the end of the bar spins around with wide, hopeful eyes, only to deflate upon realizing that whoever he’s waiting for didn’t show.

Patrick watches as he checks his phone, sighs, and signals to the bartender to close out his tab. He downs the rest of his drink in one go, throws a few bills on the plastic receipt tray and leaves, the door slamming shut behind him.

— —

The second time Patrick sees him is a few weeks later, and he’s not alone.

Occupying the stool next to him is a woman with long brown hair, her hand tight around a beer bottle as she talks animatedly. Her back is to Patrick, so he can’t see what her face is doing, but it’s enough to make the man throw his head back and somehow do a full-bodied eye roll. Honestly, Patrick didn’t know something like that was possible.

He comes back around and smiles this big, brilliant thing at her, says something that Patrick can’t hear, and when her free hand comes up and squeezes his shoulder, Patrick draws a breath.

Something in him quickly dissolves, something he can’t quite put a finger on. He turns to his phone, opening up his previous message to Rachel.

**_I hope what I said today didn't make you hate me._ **

Her response hadn’t been immediate, but Patrick does feel lighter upon seeing a grey text bubble after the blue one.

**_I could never hate you Patrick. I understand, and I agree. It's for the best that we end things for good._ **

**_I would still like to be your friend. That much hasn’t changed._ **

For the first time in who knows how long, Patrick feels lighter. Like he’s advancing toward something instead of constantly cycling through the past. Smiling to himself, Patrick catches the man’s eye over the woman’s shoulder. He gives him a curt nod, one that gets reciprocated and really, he doesn’t expect it.

He smiles that dazzling smile again, turning back to the woman. His lashes fan over his cheeks, his eyes give way to crinkles, and Patrick can feel the air leave his lungs in a soft _woosh,_ only to come back as something clearer.

He’s not dressed in leather tonight. His choice of attire makes him look so much softer. A cozy-looking sweater, just a little baggy on the arms, matte flowers cascading across the chest.

Monochrome seems to be embedded into his wardrobe just like blue seems to be embedded into Patrick’s. Well, not _just_ blue — he’s incorporated greens and purples as well, and of course he has his own staple pieces of blacks and whites.

Patrick fits in here amongst team pennants and crooked frames, just like the woman in the flannel sitting beside that man does. Like everyone else here.

But whoever this guy is…he’s quickly spinning a knot somewhere inside Patrick’s chest and he’s not too sure he wants to unravel it.

He’s beautiful. And a beautiful man like him should not be in a shitty dive bar.

— —

The third time he sees him, the leather is back and he’s alone, staring vacantly into a half-filled highball as drops of condensation slide down.

Patrick is piecing together that leather means he’s meeting _Someone_. Someone, capital ’S’ and all. His suspicions are confirmed each and every time the man perks up when the door opens, only to turn back around sadly, his chin in his hand.

The idea forms quicker than Patrick can execute it: he could move a few seats down and introduce himself, buy this man a drink and keep him company. If he’s getting stood up again, he could probably use someone to vent to, right? And strangers are probably the best option.

But a tall, rugged man walks in just as Patrick’s mustering the courage to go over. His clothing is torn and distressed as if it were done so purposely. It’s the sort of homeless chic vibe that Patrick will never understand the appeal for.

This new guy slides a hand over the expanse of leather along the man’s broad shoulders, but he doesn’t take a seat.

 _You could do so much better,_ Patrick thinks without resolve, surprised at how bitter the voice in his head sounds. He tips his beer back, suddenly miffed, casting his eyes toward the TV where highlights from the previous night’s hockey game are being replayed.

But it’s hard to ignore them.

“Sebastien. I was starting to think you wouldn't show.”

_Capital ’S’ indeed._

The guy — Sebastien — cups the man’s face in both hands and says something that has a jagged line slashing between his heavy brows. But the concern doesn’t last, and he’s soon smiling this small, wonderful (albeit unsure) thing as a kiss is pressed to his lips.

Patrick bites the inside of his cheek. Whoever this Sebastien guy is, he’s obviously the one who stood that beautiful man up a few weeks back. And Patrick does not like him. He seems like the kind of pretentious asshole who talks about nothing but himself and his own meagre accomplishments.

He’s confident enough to gamble on that hunch.

Sebastien takes a seat (finally) and Patrick watches out of the corner of his eye as he moves his hands slowly up, up, up that beautiful man’s thighs.

It’s not as intimate as it should be. It feels…possessive isn’t the right word, but maybe casual? That’s probably it. More effort is being put in by one than the other.

Casual and wrong.

Still, Patrick averts his eyes the second he hears a giggle escape from the man in leather, just barely catching him as he presses his face into Sebastien’s neck.

A whistle has the bartender walking over and they’re soon gone, Sebastien having paid the tab and dragging the man in leather armor out with him.

— — 

Patrick doesn’t see him the next time he goes to the bar, or the next two times after that.

— — 

“So what’s good here?”

Patrick has finally convinced Rachel to find time amidst her busy work schedule to meet him for a drink. He’d like to consider it a success on his part, but given that his birthday was just a few days ago, he thinks that’s the real reason she agreed to go out.

It’s been several months since their breakup. Their friendship had only strengthened in that time, and he likes to think this is how they were always meant to be — best friends. 

“I usually get beer,” Patrick says, skimming the menu he’s maybe looked at once. “It’s a dive bar, you won’t find many signature cocktails.”

“I don’t know, they’ve got a punch bowl,” she tuts, jabbing him with her elbow. “You’re so stuck in your ways. I’ll have a vodka soda with lemon, please,” she says when the bartender comes over.

“You know what? Whiskey, neat.”

Rachel’s eyes glean. “Patrick Brewer. Liquor instead of beer? Are we somewhere fancier than a little dive bar?”

He shrugs. “Nope, we just have something to celebrate.”

She smiles knowingly. “That we do. Cheers.”

Patrick raises his glass to hers and takes a sip, immediately warming from the center of his chest to his fingertips.

He looks past her as the door swings open and that beautiful man walks in. He takes his usual seat at the very end of the bar. No one follows him in, no one sits beside him. He just orders and taps his phone mechanically.

“Hey.” Rachel kicks him. “What are you looking at?”

“What—? I’m not—“ Patrick tries, but she’s spinning around before he can stop her.

“Do you know him?” She asks, turning back to face him and grinning. She sips at her drink idly.

“Yeah. I mean, no. I’ve seen him here a few times but it’s been a while…”

Rachel nods slowly. “You know you’re staring, right?”

“No I’m not.” Patrick shifts so he’s facing the wall of liquor bottles behind the bar.

“He’s cute, Pat. I don’t blame you.” She nudges him, throwing a wink his way before glancing over at the man again. “He’s alone.”

“He’s—he’s not,” Patrick stammers. “He’s actually with someone. I mean, not _now,_ but like—“

“Hey, I know what you mean.” Careful and steady, her hand comes over his and squeezes. “It’s okay,” she whispers, just to Patrick, to every part of his very soul, and something about the tone of her voice makes him breathe easier.

She doesn’t say anything else. Not when he catches himself staring again, or eyeing the door for someone in an artfully-torn sweater.

“Fingers crossed he breaks up with whoever he’s with,” Rachel mutters to him later in the night, making Patrick laugh incredulously at her boldness.

“You’re funny, you know that?”

“Take initiative,” is all she says before raising her glass. “To getting laid.”

“Good god.”

“Happy birthday.”

He suppresses an eye roll. “Thank you, Rach.”

“Happy birthday.”

They both spin to where that man sits wearing a tiny smile and a dark sweater with lines up the front, glass raised, too. Part of Patrick wants to shy away at the fact that a stranger is wishing him a happy birthday, but the bar is pretty quiet tonight.

If he was braver, he’d invite him to join them for a drink, maybe get his name.

Instead he says, “Thank you,” and smiles back.

When they leave at the end of the night, Rachel’s arm linked with his own as they walk down the street, she doesn’t prod. She doesn’t ask how long he’s known, or when or how he figured it out. Rachel just hugs him, presses a kiss to his cheek when he whispers those two words out into the late spring air.

— —

He figured it would be a safe bet: meet at the bar he’s been frequenting so he’s comfortable in his own surroundings.

In an effort to get himself out there, Patrick had been bouncing around several dating apps before he was able to find one that had actual human beings, not men looking for something overtly casual.

Ken had a nice smile and seemed friendly enough to give it a shot.

But Patrick didn’t expect it to be so…dull. There are gaps of awkward silence between the two of them the entire night, and by the end of it they come to a mutual agreement that a second date wouldn’t be in the cards for them. Patrick insists on paying the tab, apologizing to Ken for making him come so far out of his way for such a lousy date.

And then he’s alone.

Patrick’s about to call it an early night and head home when the door opens.

He catches his eye briefly, the man once again decked in monochrome from head to toe, sans armor, smiling at Patrick in acknowledgement as he sits.

He’s flanked by two others — the same dark-haired woman who Patrick saw him with that once before and a blonde girl in a dress that seems far too fancy for a place like this.

It doesn’t take much for Patrick to decipher that this guy runs in circles that outmatch anything he’s ever been a part of.

The blonde girl scrunches up her nose at the liquor selection. “Ew, why did we come here of all places, David? There’s, like, a million other bars we could go to tonight.”

_David._

So that’s his name. It’s sturdy and forthright. It suits him.

Patrick tucks it away for safekeeping, for a time when he has enough courage to introduce himself.

 _David,_ he thinks, _It’s perfect._

“Well I didn’t want my sister tagging along for a night out when it was _just_ supposed to be me and Stevie, but it was the only way to get you to shut up. Besides,” he hears David say as he twists his rings, “this place is pretty low-key.”

“What? Are you trying to avoid someone?”

“Nope.” David averts his gaze. “Sebastien’s just being a dick again, so this was the best place to go for a drink and not see him…or his shoddy friends.”

“Right, his ‘friends.” The other girl, Stevie, says, eyeing David with concern. “You told me you got him to meet you here once.”

“Mm, took a lot of begging,” he responds, heavy brows flying high on his forehead. “I’m not proud of that, but I also hadn’t seen him in weeks, so.”

“Well I don’t like him.” Patrick watches as David’s sister drops her purse onto the bar with a flourish and sits in the spot beside him. “And no offense, David, but he’s not even that hot.”

“Says the girl who dated a shipping heir that looked like a cross between a 90’s grunge singer and a hippie.”

“Okay, enough of that.”

Ah, now Patrick was seeing the similarities. He stifles a laugh into his beer, and suddenly there’s drumming on the opposite end of the bar.

“Listen, David,” Stevie says, scooting a barstool out. “You already know that I would fuck him up in a second. Just give me the word.” The way she crosses her leather-clad arms over her chest makes Patrick think she’s wearing the armor to protect him tonight. She’s fierce, clearly a force to be reckoned with.

“Excuse me? Hi! Can we get a round of shots?” David’s sister is leaning halfway over the bar, arm raised high. The bartender drops three shot glasses in front of them. “We’ll do…Oh, good! You have Patron. We’ll do that.” She taps the bar. “And send one over to that cutie, too.”

Patrick is suddenly made very aware that she’s talking about him. He looks around anyway, noting the lack of other patrons at the bar, face red and burning.

“O-oh, no,” he waves a hand about. “That’s really okay.”

Her arm extends along the bar further, like she’s reaching out to him. “Please, I insist.”

And, okay. One shot can’t hurt. A tiny glass is set in front of him. “Cheers,” he says, and knocks it back full force.

His shoulders stiffen as the liquor hits his chest, and Patrick realizes that she said _Patron._ Tequila. God he does not like it at all. When she offers him one more, David reels her back in.

“Alexis, let the guy drink in peace.”

“I’m just being friendly, David!”

“And more tequila is going to make him vomit. He’s drinking _beer.”_

“So?”

David shakes his head. “Have you learned nothing in your twenty-nine years of life?”

Alexis does what Patrick can only consider a growl as she swipes at him. “Shut up, David!”

“I’m fine, really,” Patrick says, corralling their attention as he walks over. “I’m not a fan of tequila, but I do appreciate the gesture. I’m heading out, anyway, but thank you.”

Alexis pouts her red lips. “That’s so sad! You seem so much cooler than my brother.”

“I can’t help but agree with her,” Stevie says with a shrug, which seems to mildly outrage David.

 _“Why_ are you two against me right now?” He gawks, voice pitching two octaves.

Stevie shrugs again. “It’s fun.”

“You’re evil.”

“You guys have a good night,” Patrick says, inching closer to the door. And then, looking directly at David, he says, “I’ll see you around.”

It’s when Patrick’s halfway to his apartment that he realizes it would have been the perfect opportunity to properly introduce himself. He mentally kicks himself the rest of the way home.

— —

David invades his dreams. He’s mysterious, ethereal, and utterly beautiful. He seems so closed-off most of the time, but he still appears to be this bright and shining beacon Patrick can’t seem to look away from. If he blinds him, so be it.

And when he smiles, it’s breathtaking.

He’ll find the words to say to him eventually. When the time is right.

— —

David is at the bar before Patrick this evening it seems. He doesn’t glance over his shoulder when Patrick walks in, doesn’t acknowledge the squeak of the barstool against the wood flooring.

He just stares at the shot glass gripped in his hand, lips pressed into a thin line. Even in the dim light, Patrick can just about make out the tightness in his jaw.

He’s wearing leather tonight, too. And by the looks of it, he’s getting stood up again.

Patrick isn’t confrontational, but he wouldn’t be opposed to calling Sebastien out on his shit if the opportunity arose. Who could leave such a beautiful person in the dust like that?

Curbing the thought, Patrick orders a whiskey and pulls up his work email, thumbing through it, deleting old meeting notifications and catching Rachel up on his latest failed dating exposition when he hears it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Patrick snaps his head up. Sebastien is standing over David, completely unaffected by the outburst.

“David, haven’t we talked about language?”

“I never agreed to those photos—“

“David.”

He can’t make out much else besides a whispered hiss of, “You’re a vulture,” from David as he swipes away Sebastien’s hands. Even the bartender is facing away now to give them privacy, busying himself with polishing glasses.

There’s a sharp clatter of the shot glass being smacked against the bar as David stands tall, just short of Sebastien’s full height, and Patrick watches as he leans in close to his face and spits out in a perfect, heated string:

“Go fuck yourself, Sebastien.”

An eerie silence blankets the immediate vicinity of the bar as David storms off toward the bathrooms. Patrick glares at Sebastien as he looks his way.

“Always dramatic, that one.” He stands, hitching a camera bag higher on his shoulder, but the bartender stops him, holding out a slip of paper. “I didn’t order anything.”

“You’re paying his tab.” He’s staring Sebastien down. “He’s here all the time waiting for you, and you’ve kind of been an asshole. The least you can do is pay his tab—“

“Don’t,” Patrick catches himself saying. “I’ll pay it.”

Sebastien looks him up and down with something between pity and intrigue. “You’re kidding. Good luck with that. David Rose comes with quite a lot of baggage. Then again, our arrangement was mutually beneficial.” The nonchalance in his shrug and the all-too-fluid gesture he gives makes Patrick run cold. He want to tear him a new one, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“There _was_ always an expiration date with that one.”

He finally leaves without a backward glance, and Patrick’s jaw is clenched almost as tight as his fists. He will never understand the audacity of such indecent people.

Scum of the earth, truly.

He clears his throat, letting the bartender know he’ll be back as he makes his way through the high-top tables, following David’s path.

Relief washes over him when he realizes it’s not a single person restroom and the door opens with a pushe, giving way to several stalls and urinals.

It’s quiet save for the drip of a faucet and the telltale sign of sniffing coming from the man in leather armor. David’s on the floor, knees tucked against his chest, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes as he lets out sputtery, shaky breaths.

“Hey.”

His breathing stops abruptly, and David moves his face away from his hands. His dark eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, the lines in his forehead etched deeply as he blinks up at Patrick.

“God, sorry,” he sniffs. “I thought I locked that.”

And, glancing over, Patrick sees that there is in fact a lock on the door. He flicks the deadbolt and turns back around, smiling gently. “It is now.”

“Sorry,” David says again. He sounds congested, like he’s trying his hardest not to inhale through his nose and make a disgusting sound. “A-are you just here to tease me? Tell me I’m being dramatic? I’m sorry you had to see that, but I’m really not in the mood to—“

“I’m not here to tease you, David,” Patrick assures, and his name rolls off his tongue with such ease it nearly makes him jump. “I’m just seeing if you’re okay.”

A wet, humorless laugh escapes David as he knocks his head back against the green tile. “You don’t know me, though.”

“Is that a caveat? Because I’m not sure it is.”

David only responds with a hum, spinning one of his silver rings around his forefinger. “My sister sent you a shot once.”

“I think your sister was flirting with me.”

“Alexis flirts with everybody,” David retorts. “That’s just who she is. No offense, but that wasn’t special treatment or anything.”

“Well, she’s not my type anyway, so.”

David blinks at him. “Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’ Far from it, actually.” Patrick gives him a shrug. “So, are you okay?”

“I’m sitting on the dirty floor of a men’s bathroom in a dive bar filled with sticky tables whose premium vodka is _Sky,_ if you can even call it that, it tastes like _peroxide._ So yeah, I’m great.”

“Uh-huh. Not a fan of Tito’s, then?”

“I’m actually a big fan of Tito’s, thank you. But…honestly, I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Patrick holds his hand out to help David to his feet, shaking it a little before he actually takes it.

David mumbles a, “Thanks,” and moves to run his hands under the tap. Patrick watches as he dabs wet fingertips under his eyes a few times before setting his hands down on the edge of the sink and gripping it tight, shoulders hunched.

“He’s gone, you know. Sebastien.”

David looks at him in the mirror. “What?”

“He left,” Patrick clarifies, folding his arms over his chest. “So you don’t have to worry about him.”

“No, no. I’ll have to worry about him for quite a while.” His voice is small, nearly impossible to hear even in the quiet bathroom. 

Patrick can feel his heart squeeze in his chest as he resists the urge to reach out and place a comforting hand on David’s back. “I’m sorry—“

“Ugh, please don’t. You had nothing to do with any of that.” David circles a hand about. “It was a really complicated relationship between us, and I should have seen this coming, really.”

“It’s still unfair,” Patrick replies a little sharply. “No one deserves to be with someone like that.”

“Yeah, well I probably did something in my past life to deserve a piece of shit like him, so it evens out.”

Patrick wants to stomp his foot on the floor and tell David that no, he’s completely wrong, that Sebastien doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it. That he doesn’t know the kind of person he’s missing out on — beautiful, intriguing, breathtaking.

Instead, throat tight, he says, “Can I walk you home, David?”

Patrick startles himself this time around, and by the looks of it, he startles David, too, because he’s staring at him directly now, not through the mirror.

“What?” He shakes his head. “You want to walk me home?”

“If that’s alright by you. I just figure you could use a friend tonight.”

David shakes his head again, slower this time like he’s trying to comprehend the words that just came out of Patrick’s mouth. “I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Patrick.” He holds his hand out, this time in greeting.

“And how do you know _my_ name, Patrick?”

“You come here a lot,” he replies honestly. “I kind of picked it up after a while. And I heard it from your sister.”

And while David looks like he’s not quite sure he likes that answer, he shakes Patrick’s hand, his rings cool against his fingers.

“I don’t live nearby,” he says.

“That’s okay, I don’t mind.”

“And you have no idea who I am. Besides an idiot who chases after horrible people.”

Patrick offers him a sympathetic smile, pulling his mouth up on one side. “I don’t think you’re an idiot. We can get to know each other on the way. I would just — I would really like to make sure you get home alright. Okay?”

David stares at him for a second, eyeing him up and down as if he’s trying to figure out if Patrick is trustworthy. His hackles visibly fall, however, features softening. “Okay.”

With that, Patrick unlocks the door and guides them back through the crowd up to the bar where the bartender excuses himself from a new customer to wave them off.

“it’s taken care of,” he says when Patrick pulls out his wallet. “You’re all set.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. See you guys soon.”

Patrick throws double what he probably owes on the bar, as well as extra for what David’s drinks probably wound up being, and waves in thanks.

He ushers David out into the cool early summer evening, shoes scuffing on concrete.

“I’m this way.” David points to his right and starts walking, Patrick hot on his heels. “Seriously, Patrick, I can call an Uber or something. You don’t have to walk me all this way.”

“I’d like to,” he manages. “I always like walking. Helps me clear my head, you know?”

“Guess so.”

“What, um…Do you want to talk about it? What happened?”

“Uh, not really? I’d rather not think about it for a bit. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay, David. What you say goes.”

For a few blocks, they walk in silence, and Patrick wracks his brain for something, some anecdote or story to distract David with.

“How did you find that place?” He eventually asks, thumb hitched over his shoulder.

“What, the bar?”

“Yeah.”

“I just stumbled upon it while walking, really. God, I sound like my mother. ‘Stumbled upon,” he repeats in an airy voice. “Jesus.” 

“You seem like the type of person to hit up nightclubs or one of those VIP lounges across town.”

“Yeah,” David huffs, “not anymore. Not really the kind of crowd I want to be with, I’ve learned. I have a friend that’s actually a decent human being, even if she does like to steal all of my wine and roast me every chance she gets.”

“Is she the one that was with you and your sister that night?”

“Yeah, that’s Stevie,” he replies, a smile pulling at his lips. “A menace.”

“We all need one of those in our life,” Patrick says, and it’s enough to make David laugh.

It’s a track he wants to replay over and over again.

They keep walking, cast in the light of the street lamps and neon storefronts, David directing them every so often down a new block. Patrick knows he has never once seen David in daylight, just the dim bar lighting, the crappy fluorescents in the bathroom, and whatever washes over them now, but there’s no doubting it — he’s absolutely stunning.

The thought alone makes his breath hitch.

It quickly feels like they’ve known each other for years, a banter forming between them that feels so natural. Patrick tells David the story of how he once rode his bike straight into a thorn bush when he was nine and came out with a dozen or so little pricks in his arms and legs. David tells him about the time he fell backwards off the side of some mogul’s yacht in Mykonos and developed a fear of open water because of it.

“I was drunk,” he admits sheepishly, kicking at a rock in his path. “Sobered up real quick after that.”

“Sounds like a fun time.”

“If you say so. At least my sister wasn’t there to witness me make a total fool of myself. I would never hear the end of it.” David comes to a stop at a set of glass doors. “This is me.” He points lamely up at the towering brick apartment building. “Thank you for walking me, Patrick. Again, you really didn’t have to do that. Or anything else tonight. We don’t know each other.”

“We don’t,” he agrees, shoving his hands in his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “But I’d argue we know each other a little better now.”

David smirks. “Wise ass.”

“Listen…” Patrick huffs out a breath, twisting a full three hundred and sixty degrees in his spot. He blinks up at the sky to collect his thoughts, butterflies making themselves at home low in his belly. “How do I say this and not sound like a stalker? Uh...I’ve seen you a lot, David, and you always just…caught my eye.”

“Wha—?” David lets out an astonished laugh. “I’ve caught your eye? Is this a-a movie or something?”

“I mean it, David. I’ve done my own fair share of wallowing—“

“I don’t wallow.”

Patrick shakes his head. “You don’t wallow. But I’ve seen you sitting at the bar alone waiting for someone, I’ve seen you with people who seem to make you really happy, and I’ve seen you with that Sebastien guy. You were always waiting for him, right? When you were alone?” Patrick knows he’s probably prying a little too much right now, but he can’t help himself.

But David scoffs, casting his eyes elsewhere. “Unfortunately,” he grumbles through a half-smirk. “He’s not…great? I know that now. I was lying to myself for a while. Thought it could really be something.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

A car zips past, effectively bringing a steady pause over them both. Patrick rocks back and forth on his heels, studying David as the words claw at his throat. He doesn’t want to leave it at a simple goodnight. Any excuse to get David’s number would be ideal, but it’s probably not the most appropriate thing to do, right?

Who is he even kidding? Patrick just walked this man — this _stranger —_ home when he lives a solid twenty minutes in the opposite direction of Patrick’s own apartment. And it’s not like he won’t see David again. There’s a pretty good chance he’ll catch him at the bar again sometime soon. 

He wouldn’t go find a new place to go just like that. Right?

Still, he _could_ ask for David’s number. And then maybe, _maybe,_ they can meet up and have a drink together. There. Simple.

But David’s looking at him with something unnamed, something that feels absolutely necessary.

“Patrick?”

It’s small. It’s tight. It’s earnest.

And then David’s kissing him, cupping Patrick’s cheek and sweeping his tongue lightly along his bottom lip. He brings his hands out of his pockets once his brain catches up and pulls David in by the waist, tilting his chin to meet him evenly.

It’s the best first kiss Patrick has ever fucking had.

David kisses like he means it, like this is the last chance he has and he’ll never be able to do it again, and Patrick can almost taste the notes of sadness on his tongue.

He’s pulling away all too soon, and Patrick almost lets out a pathetic whimper at the loss of contact.

“Do you wanna come up?” He whispers into their space, and Patrick finds himself nodding immediately.

David takes his hand and leads him through a gorgeous lobby toward a bank of elevators. They giggle and avert their shy gazes like teenagers as they wait for one of the three sets of doors to slide open, and again as they take the long ride up. Patrick counts each floor in meditation, nearly one hundred percent certain if he doesn’t that he’ll just pounce on David then and there.

“Now this is really me,” David announces as they approach a white door at the end of the hall. He clears his throat and unlocks it, pushing the door open to reveal a spacious lofted apartment.

Patrick takes it all in; the bank of windows to his left that leaks in the light of the city, the artwork that lines the brick walls, the kitchen tucked beneath the second level, the wood-slat staircase leading up to the bedroom. His heart skips as an image of David coming undone on that bed flashes through his mind, the idea of taking care of him seeming like the most important thing in the world.

He schools the thought as David places a careful hand on his lower back, moving him toward the leather couch.

“Want anything to drink?” David asks over his shoulder as he heads toward the kitchen. He opens up a stout cooler that appears to be built into the island. “I have wine. Red okay?”

“Yeah, perfect.”

David pours them each a glass and carries them over to where Patrick sits on the couch ramrod straight. Their knees knock together and he takes a sip, trying to ease the nerves that have settled in his stomach.

Aside from one failed date, Patrick has never been alone with another guy intimately. And definitely not like this. It’s a little riveting, a little exciting, the prospect of having something like this when he never has before. He feels like he’s sixteen, all keyed-up.

He isn’t sure what he should call… _this._ A hookup, probably, a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. But he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t happy about it.

“Hey,” comes a soft whisper to his left, and suddenly his glass is being set down for him on the burnished wood coffee table.

Patrick sets one hand on David’s knee, the other at the back of his head as he kisses him, stomach swooping on contact. He allows himself to be eased back against the pillows, feeling emboldened with David hovering above him, pressed into him.

He’s at the lapels of his jacket, struggling to push it down his arms. “This thing…get it off,” Patrick nearly growls against his lips, and David obliges, leaning back to lay remove it and lay the expensive-looking piece along the back of the sofa.

He comes back down, mouth hot, and Patrick can feel him growing hard against his thigh. David moves to Patrick’s belt, deft fingers working over the buckle until it falls undone and he’s unbuttoning his jeans next, tugging the tails of Patrick’s shirt free.

David’s lips move to his collarbone, sucking against the skin while Patrick’s hands find their way beneath the soft black t-shirt he wears. His fingers meet a fine patch of hair low on his belly and he finds himself wanting to move lower, explore further, but the button of David’s jeans is hard to undo with shaking hands.

Which— when did that start?

“Bed?” David breathes, pressing a kiss against his lips. His breath is hot, and _god,_ Patrick would do just about anything for this man right now.

“Yeah. Wait—“

Patrick sets a hand on David’s chest, moving to sit upright. He’s met with wide, dark eyes and a worrisome expression that makes Patrick want nothing more than to hold David close and promise he isn’t going anywhere.

“I don’t—that’s probably not the best idea tonight, David. Especially after everything that happened. I just don’t think we should…you know.”

And then David’s nodding, kind of reminiscent of an over-enthusiastic bobble head. He leans his elbows on his knees, fingertips pressed against his kiss-swollen lips and squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah, I should have…This was a mistake, I’m sorry—“

“No, please don’t be.” Patrick moves closer, easing David’s hands away from his face. “It’s not a mistake. I—“ He cuts himself off, searching for the words. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea to jump right into that tonight.”

David’s nodding slows. He gives a soft smile, a hand coming over to squeeze his. “Thank you, Patrick.”

“If it’s alright by you, I’d like to keep you company for a little while.”

“I would really like that.” He pauses, mouth opened like he’s searching for the words, and then he’s grabbing his wine glass, downing half of it before speaking again. “No one has ever been nice to me just for the sake of being nice or making sure I was okay.” David meets Patrick’s eye. “I’m not used to it.”

“I can assure you, David, that you are deserving of good people and good things.”

David laughs, loud and echoing that dissolves with a wet sniff. “You think so?”

Patrick nods. “You’re a good person,” he says, “and good people deserve to be told that every once in a while.”

“I don’t…see myself as _good,”_ David says with a roll of his eyes.

“Well I think you are. And not to sound convoluted, but I don’t think _you_ think you deserve bad things.”

David stares at him, curious. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“A small town in Ontario,” Patrick replies with a smirk. He takes great pride in the smile that comes across David’s face, a wide and genuine one.

“And there’s just, um, something else. That I wanted to say,” he continues after a moment, hands clasped together tightly in his lap. “I’ve never been with another guy before, so this is all very new to me. And very exciting.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I hope that doesn’t deter you or anything since I don’t know what I’m doing—“

“It doesn’t,” David assures softly. _“I_ don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“That’s comforting, actually. Makes me feel a lot better, so thank you.” Patrick pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and stares at a dark knot in the wood of the coffee table. “And—hey?”

“Mm?”

“If I’m being honest…I’ve been trying to work up the nerve talk to you for a while.”

David squints. “You have?” And Patrick nods. “Well I’m happy you finally did. I just wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Me, too,” he sighs.

Patrick lolls his head back, taking in the high industrial ceilings of the loft. They stay like that, sitting in a comfortable silence with the only disruption being the cars passing on the street below or the occasional honk of a horn. It gives him time to really put some things into perspective, to really take in the fact that he’s sitting with David in his home, no qualms.

The David he quietly observed from his end of the bar feels like a thing of the past, a separate life. And even though it’s spontaneous (and new), Patrick wants to get to know this man who wears leather armor, draped in monochrome and who deserves so much better.

Again, strangers. But he’s hoping to change that.

“David?”

He turns to him with a contented expression. “Mm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Mm-hm.”

There’s no fervency to the kiss this time, but it’s still _oh so_ perfect. Slow and gentle, Patrick can feel David relax more and more the longer it goes on. And when they pull apart, David looks blissful.

“Do you want to stay the night?” He asks quietly, as if speaking any louder will disrupt the air around them. He drops a kiss to Patrick’s shoulder, nosing the spot.

“I don’t want to intrude…”

“You’re not. I’m not asking you to sleep with me or whatever, but you can stay here. It’s late. And if not, I can call you an Uber. I don’t mind either way.”

“No, I’ll stay,” he says quicker than he probably should. But it seems to be what David wanted to hear. “I said I would like to keep you company, didn’t I?”

“Which you don’t have to do.”

“I’d like to,” he replies in the same tone as when he offered to walk David home. “Come on, what kind of movies do you have queued up?”

They cycle through a selection of rom-coms that Patrick readily admits he’s never seen, which earns him a look of exasperation from David, and finish off the bottle of wine they’d cracked open.

He drifts off with a love confession playing out on the screen and a weight on his shoulder.

— —

The sun is hitting his eyes at a very weird angle. His neck is positioned awkwardly, and he feels like he might just slip off the bed if he makes even the slightest movement.

Pulling through the sleep fog, Patrick blinks his eyes open, only to realize that this isn’t actually his bedroom. He’s not in his apartment, he’s not laying on a bed, and there’s someone pressed up against him. He’s flat on his back, staring at a very high ceiling that’s definitely not his own and when he looks down, a shock of dark hair is nestled on his shoulder.

Suddenly very aware of the man that’s wrapped up in his arms, Patrick breathes out slowly, trying his hardest to suppress a smile.

David’s still fully dressed, they both are, save for the jacket that’s still positioned along the back cushions and shoes that were left by the door. He’s sound asleep with a hand wrapped around Patrick’s ribcage. The weight of him feels nice, it’s comfortable, and Patrick could stay there forever.

But he really needs to use the bathroom.

He presses his nose into David’s hair, breathing in the sweetness of his shampoo and leaving a kiss to the top of his head. Patrick maneuvers himself out from under him, adding ‘heavy sleeper’ to the list of things he now knows about David Rose, and searches the loft from where he stands. 

There are two doors just past the kitchen; one opens up to a pretty barren pantry, and the other to a full bathroom. He’s quick, and he gives himself a once-over in the mirror as he washes his hands.

His hair is a little askew, but just at the crown of his head which he manages to pat down, and he looks well rested to say the least. And other than wanting a shower and to possibly brush his teeth, he feels good to go.

Maybe David has an extra toothbrush lying around at the very least amongst the plethora of skincare products he has lined up, the benefits or functions of which Patrick couldn’t explain if he tried.

He pads out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, and unless David’s moved to his bedroom above him, he’s still asleep on the sofa.

Patrick finds two mugs and a box of Earl Grey, taking a few minutes to figure out how to work David’s Nespresso machine, assuming by the heft of the bottle of caramel creamer he found beside the milk is regularly used.

“Oh. Thought you left.” David’s head has popped up behind the back of the couch, face sleep-worn and hair messy. 

Patrick bites back a grin at the disarray of it all, knowing that David always appears to be so well-put together. Still, he carries over two mugs, handing one over.

“It would be rude if I did, don’t you think?” He settles in beside him, blowing on his tea. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good,” David replies, lips twisting to the side. Patrick thinks he catches the faintest bit of color on his cheeks. “It’s not a bed, but still good. You?”

“I slept very well,” he replies honestly, because he absolutely did and no way in hell does he feel ashamed to admit it was the best night’s sleep he’s had in a long time. “Had, um, good company.”

One of David’s eyebrows shoots up. “Yeah?”

Patrick hums. “You slept on top of me the whole night.”

Apparently, that doesn’t comfort David as much as he’d like, because a look of horror flashes across his face. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“What? What for?”

“You were probably so uncomfortable,” he explains, one hand whizzing about. “You should have woken me up! I would have slept upstairs so you could have more room—“

“It wasn’t uncomfortable, David. I promise. Honestly, after the second movie, we were both nodding off and you wound up falling asleep on my shoulder. I think we both just managed to subconsciously lay down. It’s fine, I didn’t mind at all.”

David blinks at him. “You’re absolutely sure? I didn’t, like, kick you in my sleep or something?”

“No bruises,” he assures with a light tone. “I haven’t slept that well in a while.”

“Oh…well if that’s the case. Then you’re welcome.” David sips his coffee, nearly moaning into his mug. “I needed this,” he sighs. “How’d you know how I take my coffee?”

“The bottle of creamer that’s almost empty.” Patrick nods toward the kitchen, then raises his mug. “Tea for myself.”

“You’re very observant.”

Patrick winks. “I pride myself on that.” And he does. He spent a long time observing David over the last few months, his mannerisms, the way he holds himself. All of it.

David’s blushing again. _“Well,”_ he says, tucking his lips between his teeth.

For a second, he looks like he might lean back and drift off again, but his phone rattling violently on the coffee table knocks him out of his trance. He glances at it, taps the screen once, and leans back again.

“Not important,” he states, bringing his mug to his lips again. “I’ll get back to them later.”

Patrick nods. “How about breakfast?” He suggests, nudging David with his foot. “I’d offer to cook something, but you just had a few boxes of pasta, a packet of instant oatmeal, and popcorn when I was looking for tea earlier.”

David winces. “I do a lot of ordering in…” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, tipping his head back with a breath. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, I have to shower first.”

He starts gathering the forgotten wine glasses from the night before, tinged red at the bottom, taking Patrick’s mug as well before dumping them in the sink.

“Actually, I usually take a while, so if you want to shower first, you can...” He looks over sheepishly, spinning what Patrick assumes to be a very under-utilized pepper mill around on the marble countertop. “There’s, um, really good products in there. And fluffy towels.”

Patrick stares back at him, a little speechless, because for some reason the thought of being completely naked with David on somewhere on the other side of the door makes him freeze. Not that he’s entirely opposed to the idea, but he still stands by what he said last night, about not jumping right into things on a rebound, even if his heart is pounding.

There are millions of beautiful people in this world and _somehow_ Patrick was lucky enough to sleep with one wrapped up in his arms last night. Quite possibly the _most_ beautiful person he’s ever seen. 

And god, he’s still not over it.

“Okay,” he finally says, but it comes out much less confident than he was intending.

David hands him a stack of towels, points out the toiletries and digs out a spare toothbrush. “There’s toothpaste in here,” he says, pulling the top drawer out to show him. “I’ll be out there if you need anything.”

On that note, Patrick gets the water running, stripping out of his jeans and shirt, as it warms.

He’s just tugging his tee over his head when there's a knock on the door. Patrick clutches the white bundle of fabric to his chest and opens it just a crack.

A pair of hands slips through holding a grey hoodie, and Patrick marvels at the fact David is actually looking away. Like he wasn’t about to completely ravish him not eight hours ago. Patrick actively ignores the sharp zing that goes up his spine.

“I’m going to assume that you wore that shirt all day yesterday, so something clean would probably be nice.” David’s voice is muffled by the way he’s facing and the spray of the shower in the background. “I’ll make an exception and share my clothing just this once.”

Patrick eases it from his hands, taking note of how soft the material is. “Thank you, David.”

“Yes, yes I’m a generous person and you’re wasting water and I’m hungry,” he replies, shutting the door for Patrick and he laughs.

Sentimentality’s just out the window, then.

He showers quick, folding his button-up as neatly as possible as he exits. He’s about to call out to David, let him know the bathroom’s free, but Patrick stops himself when he finds the man in question pacing by the sofa.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. No, I— _Stevie_ …I told him to go fuck himself and he left.” David turns on his heel, seeing Patrick and flashes him a wince. “I got home fine, don’t worry about it. No, no I don’t…I don’t need you to do anything. I’ll come over tonight and we’ll talk about it.” He looks at Patrick directly when he says, “Last night didn’t end too badly, actually. I’ll tell you about it later, but I’ve gotta go. Yeah…Yes, fine I’ll bring food. Goodbye.”

David emits a little sigh. “That was Stevie,” he announces, tucking his phone away in his crossed arms. “I told her I was meeting up with Sebastien last night, promised to let her know how stuff went, but I forgot. Kind of got distracted.”

Patrick tries his best not to make it look like the air was just pulled from his lungs by the way David’s eyes rake over him. He swallows, hard. “If she wants to see you now, I can leave—“

“No, please don’t.” David’s hands are on his shoulders in an instant. “I mean, um…It’s fine. She knows I’m alive, so that’ll hold her off until later,” he explains quickly. “I’m gonna shower. I’ll be quick. Well, not _quick,_ but…yeah.”

That leaves Patrick to his own devices for forty-five minutes. He responds to the four texts from Rachel about the book he’d leant her, and one from his mother asking him to call later that afternoon. Social media and the news feed on his home screen are dry, mostly, which leaves him to scour the apartment.

He’d flick on the TV, but Patrick is far more interested in learning about David without actually rifling through his drawers like a heathen. Lots of art — geometric stuff, pieces that look like they were curated and created for David personally, not for the masses to admire (which, well, _that’s_ a whole layer to unpack). 

Everything matches, even the books filling the case by his windows which appear to be either very worn or completely untouched, there’s no in-between. Behind an extravagant-looking statuette sitting on the top of the bookcase there’s a sleek black frame. Patrick lifts it with careful hands and is met with four somewhat stoic faces. David in a suit next to a man that is definitely his father, whom he is an absolute carbon copy of. An older blonde woman with red lips and a black and white ensemble, and another one, much younger. Alexis, Patrick recognizes immediately, in a glittering dress, lips pursed for the camera. 

They all seem like one collective unit but all individually their own. He has no idea what their dynamic is but this single photo gives him just the slightest peak into what their lives are like when they’re together, all posed and proper. He kind of loves it. 

The clearing of a throat from behind catches him off guard. Patrick spins around, frame gripped in his hands, to see David watching him. He doesn’t look perturbed by Patrick’s snooping or like he wants to tell him off. In fact, he has the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

“Hi. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were done.” Patrick sets the frame back in its spot. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to see you look at my weird ass family,” David replies with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s from a party my Dad hosted back home. He gave me and my sister a copy of that a few weeks later.”

Patrick beams. “It’s sweet of you to have it on display, even if you’re hiding it behind something.”

David makes a face. “Yeah, don’t tell anyone. Here.”

He holds out a slightly wrinkled canvas tote for Patrick. “What’s this?”

“For your shirt. So you don’t put it on a dirty seat at breakfast. Speaking of — I skipped two whole steps of my morning routine for pancakes, so let’s go.”

They end up sliding into the worn-vinyl booth of a diner a few blocks over, David with a stack of pancakes covered in strawberries and syrup, Patrick with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. He ogles at how easy it is talking to this man across from him, even easier than it was last night. They’ve fallen into casual conversation, toes touching under the table. When David’s story about getting lost in the Italian countryside winds down, Patrick folds his hands on the table.

“How are you doing?” He asks tentatively, cocking his head to the side. “You know, since last night.”

David quiets. He sets his utensils down on his plate, leaning back in his seat. He purses his lips, then tucks them off to the side like he’s trying to hide his expression. “Honestly, I’m okay. Better than I thought I would be.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“No.” David shakes his head. “No, I haven’t. Sebastien isn’t the type of guy to reach out unless he actually wants something that’ll benefit him. And since I have nothing more for him to leech off me, I’ve been hung up to dry.”

He says it _too_ casually, like he’s used to it. It makes Patrick’s stomach twist just thinking about it.

“That’s not fair to you, David,” he whispers. He takes his hand and squeezes it. “And I meant what I said last night: you’re a good person.”

“Thank you, but…he’s old news now.”

Patrick swallows. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Then David sighs. “No, not entirely. But he will be. I’ve blocked him on everything, and he’s not the kind of person to crawl back. He’d rather not do the dirty work when there are other people who would.” His lips pull into a thin line. “Present company not included.”

“Okay.” That hurts to hear. “He mentioned photos…?”

“Oh, that’s old news.” David says again, waving him off like it’s nothing. But Patrick can tell it’s eating at him. And it’s clear that he can see that. “He used a set of me that we did after getting really high a while ago for a small exhibit recently. You couldn’t see my face, and there were only five of them on display, but they all sold. So, good for him.”

“I’m sorry that happened, David.” Patrick brings his other hand across the table, cupping David’s. “Is there anything you could do?”

“I don’t really want to go through all that trouble. I mean, it would be amazing to get some poetic justice, but honestly? I just want to move on, keep him in the rear view or whatever they say.”

Patrick resists every urge to slide into the booth beside David and hug him, to hold him close and remind him he’s still good despite all the wrongs that might have happened to him in the past. He’s decidedly not tortured, but he’s certainly been hurt, and that alone breaks Patrick’s heart.

Hell, he’s seen it.

“I’m happy you walked me home, Patrick,” David says after a few beats of silence. He’s smiling, something sad yet true, looking him directly in the eye. “And I’m happy that you stayed the night.”

“Yeah?”

David hums in acknowledgement. “I’m not used to nice people,” he mutters, moving his hand to take Patrick’s. “And I’m definitely not used to someone who just wants to make sure I’m alright. So…thank you for that.”

Patrick laughs, a thin and breathy thing. He feels lightheaded and like he could move mountains altogether. David’s thumb tracks over his knuckles one by one. “Can I see you again?” He asks, sounding a little pathetic.

“I would hope so. You’re wearing my Rick Owens hoodie. I’m gonna need that back at some point. And believe me, I don’t share my clothes with just anyone.”

“I’m honored,” Patrick replies, putting a hand over his heart.

They pay the bill and leave, and David walks beside Patrick for a long time, fingers brushing at their sides. Eventually, Patrick takes his phone out and has David put in his number, texting him immediately so he has his, too.

“I should probably get going,” Patrick says after the third wide berth they’ve taken around the diner. He has nothing to do aside from call his parents later, but he could spend hours walking with David, talking to him about nothing and everything.

“Mh, me, too. But I have your number, so. Drinks? Maybe Tuesday?”

Patrick nods. “Tuesday sounds good. I’ll, um, I’ll text you.”

“Okay.”

They linger. Patrick’s fingers twitch with a charged sensation. He wants to step closer, pull David in and kiss him like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do it. The whole notion of strangers has disappeared. They feel like so much more than that now, even in the few short hours it’s been.

David beats him to it, arms wrapping around his shoulders and kissing him gently. It puts it into perspective that Patrick won’t see him for two days, and as much as he would rather not wait, he’ll do what he has to if it means getting to see David Rose again.

“I’ll see you Tuesday,” he whispers against David’s lips, pecking him again as he drags a finger along the line of his dimple. “I’ll be the one in blue.”

“You always are,” David laughs. 

“Oh, so you _have_ noticed me before?”

“Yes, Patrick, I’m not blind,” he replies, kissing him again. “Tuesday.”

David leaves Patrick with one last kiss to the corner of his mouth, waving over his shoulder as he heads back down the street in the direction of his apartment. And Patrick just stands there, tote gripped in one hand, his cheeks hurting from how hard he’s smiling, completely awestruck. 

Tuesday. He can wait until Tuesday.

——

The next time he sees David, he’s sitting in Patrick’s spot on the other end of the bar. He’s sitting with a perfect view of the door, two glasses of whiskey already in front of him. 

David stands as he walks over and they both stumble for a minute, trying to figure out what the most appropriate greeting is. Do they hug? Shaking hands seems too formal. Or maybe it’s informal? Patrick can’t wrap his head around the correct terminology. But then David’s stepping forward, placing a careful hand on his shoulder and kissing his cheek, so Patrick does the same, arching his head up just a little.

It feels so right, it’s almost like he’d forgotten in the span of two days; tilting _up_ instead of down, the scratch of stubble on his lips.

When David’s fingers slip from their spot, it’s not without a lingering spark. It makes Patrick want to grab his hand, press his lips to each cool ring and hold hit close.

“This is yours.” He holds out the tote David gave him Sunday, opening it up to show the contents inside. “The hoodie’s clean, I took it off and hung it as soon as I got home.”

“Thank you,” David whispers, taking the bag and hanging it from the hook under the bar. “So, how have you been?”

“Oh, you know,” Patrick waves a hand around, “the same. Went to work, talked to my parents, watched baseball.”

David nods, humming with his brows pushed together. “Yes. Yep, baseball. That’s the one with balls.” His face is red as he quickly adds, “And bases,” which only makes Patrick chuckle.

How a man can be so inexplicably charming, he’ll never know. But he’d like to keep exploring these depths. He’s not afraid.

“Anyway.” David pushes one of the glasses toward Patrick, tapping his and taking a long sip. Patrick watches his Adam’s apple bob with the gulp and actively _does not_ think about kissing along his neck. “I’m glad you got my text.”

“I wasn’t going to stand you up, David. You know that.”

He smiles. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

By his third drink, Patrick is feeling happily warm and loose, giggling when David leans his full weight into him as they exchange stories back and forth. He doesn’t know what to think at first when David says, “I told Stevie about you,” but breathes easily when he hears the clarification that she liked him during their brief exchange after Alexis sent him a shot and that she’d like to properly meet him.

It’s all so new, Patrick isn’t sure where this thing with David will go — far, he hopes, nearly wants to _beg_ because this man in leather armor, who’s wearing a pristine black pullover with a striking white lightning over the chest bolt tonight, is someone special. If he’s jumping the gun saying that, then Patrick really couldn’t care less. He’s seen David’s heart get broken multiple times, be stomped on and left waiting enough to know, for a fact, that he doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment.

Patrick will do anything to assure him of that, whatever the pace may be.

“Will you walk me home, Patrick?” David asks once their tab is paid and they step out into the cool night.

“I would love to.”

They don’t touch, not at first, going blocks with their hands in respective pockets until David makes the first move to link their arms together. By the time they approach his building, he has his head leaning on top of Patrick’s. The elevator ride is almost too long, as is the walk down the hall to the white door that leads to the beautiful loft he slept in just a few nights ago.

“This is me,” David says, his shoulders rising and falling. “Wanna come in?”

Patrick huffs out a laugh and steps forward to kiss him. A hand comes around his back, pulling him closer, and Patrick’s nearly floating a foot off the ground at the taste; a rich whiskey on David’s tongue, sweet vanilla balm on his lips.

Somehow, the door is unlocked as David hooks a thumb under the collar of Patrick’s shirt, pressing two kisses to the reddening bare skin of his clavicle. His own thumbs venture to the hem of David’s shirt, brushing over the patch of hair he didn’t get to see Saturday night. But he will tonight. He’ll remove the sweater with care, run his hands over it as much as he wants in the bedroom just above the kitchen.

He’ll stumble up the stairs after David, catching himself on the second-to-last step as they laugh like teenagers. Patrick will let David teach him the things he never knew he wanted to learn, and he’ll keep tabs on it all. He’ll take care of David’s tender heart, still healing from past bruises, and kiss him on every inch of skin he can find — jaw, chest, hip, belly, thigh.

But right now, Patrick kisses him in the threshold of his apartment, smiling and wrapping a hand around the back of David’s head, the door shutting behind them with a soft click.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


End file.
